


After the Rain Washes Away Our Sins

by labelladonna99



Series: We were wrecks before we crashed into each other (Wall Verse) [3]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Heroes: Volume 5, M/M, Slash, angsty, petlar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Is resolution possible for Peter and Sylar?





	After the Rain Washes Away Our Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by so many great Wall stories I've read here, I often forget what's canon. Hope nobody minds whatever liberties I've taken.

The grass was a green blur as Peter sped through the park. The exercise worked its alchemy, transforming frustration into the energy he needed to keep going. Hoping to outrun a raging case of post traumatic stress earned through rivers of blood might be futile but Peter had always had a soft spot for lost causes. Enlisting Sylar, a killer, in a rescue mission was only his latest quixotic quest.

For a brief time, his hope of making progress with Sylar had been rewarded. It had been weeks since Sylar had agreed to help rescue Emma and the thousands of people who would be lured to their deaths if the carnival wasn't stopped. Their newly-formed pact was the best thing to happen since Peter had found himself a co-pilot on Sylar's mind trip. After so many refusals, he had long since stopped asking for Sylar's help when the man suddenly reversed course. That budding partnership proved to be a temporary alliance, built on shifting sands and washed away by the ineffable tide.

Maybe the dream was wrong or else Sylar would save Emma in a way Peter couldn’t predict or engineer. Perhaps Peter wouldn’t even be involved and that was why he hadn't seen himself in the dream. He would have to go on faith that it would work out however it was meant to. Meanwhile, his footfalls propelled him along a winding trail through Central Park, zig-zagging his way north in his search for a way out that didn't involve brick walls and serial killers. His mind took him on another journey, tugging him back to the events that had begun with the strange encounter in Sylar’s apartment when Peter had shown up rain-soaked and apologetic after an argument.

***

 

Sylar steered him to a mirror, dripping wet from the rain, and stood behind him with his hands wrapped around Peter’s shoulders.

“I see you. I see who you are. I didn’t before, not clearly. I do now.” Sylar’s gaze connected with Peter’s reflection and his deep voice was like cognac over crushed ice.

“You do?” Bewildered, Peter regarded Sylar’s expressive face in the mirror.

“Yes. I do. I always expect you to treat me the way other people have. You’re not other people.”

“No, I’m not.”

It warmed Peter that Sylar might realize at lastthat he wasn’t here to exact revenge on his brother's murderer. It didn’t mean that he had forgiven Sylar. Revenge was wrong. Peter had always known that. He had known it when he sought out the killer in a vain and vicious attempt to restore his brother's life. He had ceased to stoke the ire that drove him then but the glowing hot embers could erupt into flames at any moment. Peter struggled to keep that furnace closed, to focus on his mission. He wasn't proud of his lapses. He wanted answers, almost as much as he wanted to save Emma, but vengeance wouldn't solve anything. Retribution never did.

“Stay there,” Sylar had ordered, stepping away to rummage in an old-fashioned wooden dresser for a dry shirt and pants to replace Peter’s soggy clothes. Returning with the items in hand, Sylar slowly and gently undressed Peter and helped him into the dry clothing. If that was a taste of the promise awaiting Peter if he succumbed to Sylar’s advances, it was undeniably sexy. Or was Sylar going to push it too far, as he had in the past? Peter wouldn’t allow it. He steadied his breathing, prepared to fight if necessary.  
  
Peter ached for the people he was missing, and here was someone who wanted him. Someone strong and attractive. Temptation whispered its treacherous invitation but this someone was his brother’s killer, from whom he had already accepted far too much and whose own dark anger had already proved to be dangerous.

Sylar’s deep brown eyes in the mirror’s reflection never once left Peter’s. He didn’t leer and his touches didn’t linger. Sylar behaving himself made it sexier, somehow. It was the stuff of fantasy, though, not anything Peter could act on. Now fully clothed except for his bare feet, Peter waited in quiet stillness for whatever was going on to make itself known. Sylar pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

“Do you trust me, Peter?”

It took Peter a moment to gather his thoughts. Did he trust Sylar? The man had killed him several times over. He had also rescued him, twice, inexplicably risking Arthur’s powerful wrath. Trusting this man could be fatal and yet despite all of their fights, Sylar had not ambushed him since his arrival in the dream world. If Sylar were cooking up a murder plot, it was a strange technique to ply Peter with sandwiches and admonishments to rest when he had eyes only for the unbreakable brick wall. Sylar was simply human, after all. He wouldn't kill the sole person he had in this lonely place. Then there were all the sexual come ons. Peter had something Sylar wanted, even if it were a card Peter had no intentions of playing.

“I just let you undress me, Sylar. Yeah, I trust you.”

They locked eyes again in the mirror. Peter felt a soft brush of lips against his neck and his posture tensed. “I trust you, too,” Sylar said, and Peter’s heightened senses drifted back to earth as Sylar released him. “You want my help with the carnival? I want to help.”

Peter spun around to face his former rival, now potential partner. The lamplight bouncing off the mirror glowed in the other man’s eyes. For such a fearsome man, they were beautiful eyes.

“You’ll do it?” Peter stepped forward and grasped Sylar’s elbows. “That means a lot to me. Thank you.”

Sylar’s mouth lifted in one corner, halfway to a smile. “Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything. Let’s not forget we’re still stuck here.”

“I’m going to get us out,” Peter said, firm and confident as he rubbed Sylar’s arms reassuringly and met his eyes. “It’s going to happen.”

 

***

 It was still raining too hard for Peter to go back to his apartment that night. He spread the sheet and blanket Sylar had given him to sleep on the couch and made a mental note to get a new, sturdier umbrella. As he settled down to sleep, he wondered what had caused Sylar to change his mind. After years of battering one another with flying fists and cutting words, why had the killer decided now that he would help Peter with the carnival? It was both promising and odd that Sylar hadn't requested any quid pro quo other than that Peter trust him. Sylar was going to help, just like that. It was, like all things Sylar-related, a mystery. At the moment, Peter was far too tired to ponder it any further.

Soon he tumbled into sleep and dreamed he was standing on the roof of a tall building overlooking a dark, deserted city. A rumbling voice in the distance warned him that he didn’t know anything about power. Then he was plummeting to earth and when he landed he was on Level 5 with a probe shoved into his brain. Adam Monroe was in his cell pointing a gun at someone on the gurney beside Peter. Strapped to a table, Peter was powerless to stop Adam from obliterating the other person’s head. The brutal dark-haired Claire he’d seen in future timelines stood over him with a scalpel, its sharp edges gleaming with malice. “Someone has to pay for all this pain and chaos,” she said. He tried to tell her that she could end the cycle, but she'd only laughed and called him a hopeless dreamer.

“Aaaaahhhhhh!!” A scream shredded Peter’s throat as Claire cut into him and he awoke, panting, in a tangle of blankets. His eyes were wild as they darted around the darkened room, unsure of where he was.

“Peter? What the hell?” Sylar’s voice and the light from the lamp he switched on centered Peter in reality. If Peter hadn’t been so agitated, he would have been charmed by the tall, slim man’s worried expression as he approached the couch. It was as if he cared, the way he rushed to Peter's side with his heavy brows lowered over questioning eyes. Finding his voice, Peter apologized for waking him.

Sylar perched on the edge of the coffee table across from where Peter was now sitting upright on the couch. “Is there something I should do to help you?” Sylar’s messy, thick brown hair and the remnants of sleep on his face in the mellow lamplight subdued his imposing features.  
  
“You already are,” Peter said. “I guess you’re not the only one who doesn’t want to wake up alone after a nightmare.” A wry smile touched his lips.

“Tell me about the dream,” Sylar demanded, his brusque manner sweeping aside Peter’s gratitude for his presence. Funny how Sylar never wanted to talk about his own nightmares but insisted on hearing about Peter’s.

Sylar scoffed as Peter described the nightmare and recounted the very real events it had represented, although not all of them had happened exactly as the dream portrayed. “You let everyone get their hooks in you, don't you?” It was a strange thing for Sylar to say, sounding like a jealous boyfriend whose partner had been trysting with multiple lovers, but Peter’s attention was snagged by the implied insult.

“It’s not like I planned for those things to happen.” Peter looked away, shaking his head. The killer’s casual insinuation that the betrayals Peter had endured were his own fault was worse than Claire’s scalpel; it was a slicing, dicing machete laying to waste all of his effort and sacrifices.

“My point exactly. You don’t plan. What were you thinking going up against me at Odessa with no abilities and no weapons? You’ve said you didn’t know you were going to heal when you threw us both off the roof.” Sylar’s words and his undertone of superiority continued to cut into Peter, triggering his defenses.

“I was getting Claire away from you!” Peter lifted his chin. “Worked, too, didn’t it?”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose you got lucky.” Sylar sneered. “That was how I ended up as a Level 5 lab rat.”

“Lucky, ha! Excuse me if I don’t apologize. You killed a girl that night!”

Peter knew his arrow had found its mark when Sylar’s eyes went blank but it was mere seconds before he snapped back to alertness. “Enough of this trip down memory lane,” the watchmaker said airily, and then his face hardened and he gritted his teeth. “I came over here to help you, not for a lecture.” There was a feline quality to Sylar's sudden shifts in intensity, the way a cat toys with its prey before pouncing.

Peter wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but that might be a bad idea so soon after Sylar had pledged his cooperation with the carnival rescue mission. Instead he asked Sylar to turn out the light. “I'm going to try to sleep some more.” Peter laid himself down and rolled onto his side. He faced the couch’s backrest, dismissing Sylar. He heard a soft, deep sigh behind him but before he could think too much about it, his weary brain gave in to sleep.

It was daylight when Peter woke to a pair of gold-flecked brown eyes inches from his face, staring at him. He scooted back in alarm, tucking his head, and pushed himself up to sitting. Sylar was on the floor, slumped against the couch and resting his head on the same cushion where Peter had just been lying. “Wha - what are you doing?” Peter asked.

“I’m not doing anything.” Sylar rose to his feet, stretching his neck and back and emitting a low groan. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just put my head down.” In a soft voice that did nothing to calm Peter’s jangled nerves, a voice that in the past had always spelled danger, Sylar asked, “Are you afraid of me, Peter? I thought we trusted each other.”

“We do. I - I was startled, that’s all. I didn’t expect to find you literally in my face. You stayed here like that all night? Why?” Peter’s gaze flickered around the room but there were no answers there. His eyes settled on Sylar.

“You had a nightmare. I was helping you. You’ve done it for me,” Sylar said.

“What? No. I woke you up a bunch of times when you were having a bad dream. I never sat by your bed all night.”

“Sure you did. Don’t you remember? I had too much to drink…” Sylar tilted his head, inspecting Peter the waya biologist might examine a newly discovered life form.

Peter frowned. Was Sylar referring to the time he had been shapeshifted as Nathan and had slept in Peter’s bed while Peter sat up all night? Why would he bring that up? Peter wanted to get off of the couch but Sylar was looming over him, transmitting weird vibes.

“I know,” Sylar said. “That was different. You thought I was your brother, sort of. I was, once, then I wasn’t, then I was again. Funny how that works, isn’t it? And now I have all of his memories, whether I want them or not.” Sylar stared down at Peter without blinking.

“Sylar, tell me what’s going on here, why you're looking at me that way.” Peter inched over to the center cushion of the couch so he could swing his legs to the floor and stand without getting into Sylar's personal space. He felt better once he could face the other man on more equal terms, although Sylar would always have the height advantage, not to mention those fierce eyebrows.

“You tell me, Peter. Last night you said that you trust me and now you're acting like a scared rabbit. Do you think I'm going to hurt you?” A vertical crease formed between Sylar's brows, making him appear wounded until his upper lip thinned and he spat out his next words. “I watched over you all night and I didn’t harm a hair on your head.”

Peter could feel the emotions spooling from his former nemesis, but he didn’t understand what had set him off. Something about the nightmare? That Peter had been startled when he woke up? It made no sense that Sylar thought Peter needed to be watched over. There was nobody else here. Stepping closer to the other man, Peter touched his elbow. “Let's not argue. What would you like to do today? We can ignore the wall for one day, right? Like you always say, it's not going anywhere. 

The touch and soothing words did the trick, and the hard planes of Sylar's face softened as he appeared to ease back from the brink of anger.

“How about we get out those rowboats in the park?” Peter suggested. Releasing Sylar’s elbow, Peter walked over to the window and peered out. The sun was peeking over the top of the building across the street, sending its slanted rays into the apartment. A trip to the park was much more appealing than banging on a brick wall for hours. Peter turned his head when he heard Sylar approaching. Everything about Sylar was imposing...his long limbs, big hands and feet, prominent nose and magnificent dark, expressive eyebrows. Peter couldn’t quite place when he had stopped being terrified of him and begun to notice how attractive he was, although if he were being honest with himself, the fear wasn’t entirely gone and might even be part of the attraction.

“You’re cute when you try to get on my good side,” Sylar said. He gripped the back of Peter’s neck and gave three quick squeezes, then threaded his fingers through the ends of Peter’s hair before resting his gaze on Peter’s face.

“You have a good side?” Peter quipped, riveted by the hungry look in the other man's eyes and wishing he could deny the flush of heat coursing through him.

***

Peter and Sylar raced rowboats in the park and when their arms grew too tired to row, the boats floated lazily in the still, green water of the Lake just beyond the Boathouse. Sylar read his book while Peter let thoughts drift through his mind such as why the algae existed if there were no creatures to eat it. There were no predators in this world, unless he counted his companion.

“It’s strange how this place is so familiar and yet so wrong.” Peter trailed his hand in the water, soothed by the expected coolness of it when so much else was confounding.

Sylar put aside the book that had been propped on his chest and leaned up on one elbow to face Peter. “You still don’t believe this is real.”

“‘Course not,” Peter sat up in the boat to see the other man better as he thought through what he was trying to express. “It only feels that way but lots of illusions can trick our minds, like how huge the moon looks when it’s on the horizon. Or us believing we’re in a lake that doesn’t have any mosquitoes.”

“You’re going to hurt your brain thinking so hard,” Sylar said while raising himself up and grabbing the oars to pull his boat alongside of Peter’s. “You’ve said you believe this place is my mind. If that’s true, and this is my punishment,” he said, sweeping his hand out to the side and turning to indicate not only the Lake but the entire lonely universe in which they found themselves,”then I suppose the point is being alone. So no mosquitoes, nothing that eats mosquitoes, no living beings at all.” Swiveling to face forward again, he wrapped his arms around his knees and regarded Peter intently. “Of course, none of that explains _you_.”

“It was cruel of Matt to trap you here,” Peter said, ignoring what Sylar had said about him because he wasn’t sure if Sylar meant that he was part of the punishment or not. “He was always a little creepy but this …?” Peter grimaced and changed the subject to his original topic. “Do you think evolution works here? Something’s gotta eat all that algae or it’ll be as thick as pea soup.”

“Believe me, the inside of Parkman’s head is creepier than you could imagine,” Sylar smirked. “I see your point, though, about the algae. Nature abhors a vacuum...all of life is co-dependent. But if we can’t change the way we perceive illusions, then it doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not.”

“Co-dependent?” Peter laughed at Sylar’s slip of the tongue. Surely he had meant to say interdependent. “So all of life is dysfunctional relationships?”

“Yes, Peter. Like us. Dysfunctional relationships are better than none at all.”

“Okay, Sylar, but who says we can’t change the way we perceive things?”

  
***

When they were done with the rowboats, they went in search of lunch. Hours had passed without any insults or cross words, which Peter attributed more to Sylar’s mood than his own. It was nearly always Sylar who was angry and then he'd provoke Peter. Today Sylar had appeared to enjoy Peter’s company. Sylar in a good mood...who’d have thunk it?

They found a small pizzeria near the park with all the fixings waiting for them to assemble. Folding his pizza lengthwise with the practiced ease of a native New Yorker, Peter brought the pointed tip of the triangle to his mouth. It did not disappoint. Thin, crispy crust, hot, gooey cheese and just the right amount of tangy tomato sauce made for a perfect little slice of heaven. At least this barren world had a few things to savor. A line of cheese hung between Peter's mouth and the slice. Glancing up at Sylar, he noticed the man watching him with his mouth agape and his own slice suspended in his hand. Peter grinned around his sloppy mouthful and bit down on the cheese.

Sylar rolled his eyes but the ever-so-slight upturn of his mouth betrayed his amusement. “For someone with your breeding, Peter, your table manners are atrocious.” He bent his head to bite into his own pizza only to make an even worse mess as a blob of saucy cheese slid forward and he failed to catch it. The blob splattered on the table and drops of red sauce marked the front of Sylar's shirt.

Chuckling at Sylar's consternation only seconds after he had disparaged Peter’s manners, Peter retorted. “You were saying?” Sylar's glare made it even funnier and Peter let loose a whoop of laughter. Then Sylar was laughing too, making Peter laugh harder and slap the table several times. Recovering their composure, the two men eyed each other across the table and erupted once more. Sylar threw his head back and it was the purest, most joyful thing Peter had ever seen him do. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he himself had experienced such a simple moment of pleasure. He had Sylar on his side now, he'd gotten to see Mr. “I-know-how-things-work” undone by a slice of pizza and he'd made the other man laugh so hard that Sylar was still wiping his eyes.

***

 

Weeks passed and the two men co-existed in a state of peaceful camaraderie. They had been like prison cell mates before, enemies who didn’t like each other yet had nothing better to do. Like moths fluttering toward the light, they had been drawn together from the start, never knowing when they’d be squashed for succumbing to that dangerous attraction. Meet, fight, withdraw had been their pattern, always circling back to their twisted pas de deux.

It was different now. Peter had to admit that the time they had spent together recently was pleasant. Sylar had noticed too.

“Did you do this sort of male-bonding thing with your hero buddies?” Sylar asked as he waited on the basketball court for Peter to take his free throw.

“Not really,” Peter answered, taking his eyes off the ball he was dribbling to react to Sylar. Male-bonding. He supposed that was one way to describe it. “There was never time for fun. I trusted them, sometimes, but we weren't swapping personal stories.”

“Hmm. That makes me a better friend to you than they were.”

A year ago, Peter might have slugged Sylar for the remark and the smug sidelong glance with arching eyebrow that accompanied it. Now sympathy ate at him, wondering if Sylar had ever had a real friend. Maybe if he had, that person would have talked the killer down from his worst impulses. Or perhaps he wouldn't have had those impulses at all.

Gripping the basketball with the pads of his fingers, Peter made his throw and watched it sink into the net.

Sylar was good company when Peter wasn't inadvertently triggering the man’s ever-present anger. Peter had grown used to his sarcasm, even enjoyed it at times.

“What did you used to do to stay in shape before you started channeling John Henry?” Sylar asked one day at the wall.

Peter caught Sylar eyeing him as he swung the sledgehammer. He liked the attention. They were allies now and it felt like he could relax some of his long held wariness around Sylar. There was something sick about finding the killer desirable but there was nobody here to judge him for it.

“I belonged to a gym. Weights, that sort of thing. ‘Course I wasn't doing much of that after I got my abilities but turns out trying to keep Claude from beating the crap out of me was a pretty good workout. That and tangling with you.” Peter’s mouth twitched in a sideways grin. “What about you? How do you keep yourself fit?”

“You think I'm fit?” Sylar straightened his posture and looked down at his body then back at Peter.

“You look pretty good.”

“Are you flirting with me, Peter?”

“Not everything is about sex, Sylar.” Peter kept swinging at the wall. “You look like you're in good shape. Not bulky or anything, just lean and strong.”

“Ooooh, you _are_ flirting. Wanna feel my muscles?” Sylar flexed his biceps and curved his lips in mischievous invitation.

Peter couldn't help laughing at the man's shameless leering. “Some other time maybe. Why don't you take a few whacks at this wall, speaking of staying fit. I could use a rest.” Peter lowered the sledgehammer and extended it to Sylar.

“I’d rather take a few whacks at you.” Sylar stepped closer and reached for the tool.

Peter yanked the sledgehammer back as his eyes widened in alarm. _Whoa, what did I say this time?_

 _“_ Uh, that came out wrong. Come on, give me the sledgehammer. I have no interest in ruining that pretty face of yours.” With his left hand, he grasped the handle of the sledgehammer, giving a gentle tug until Peter released it. The taller man’s other hand floated up to push back a sweat dampened lock of hair that had fallen over Peter's forehead, and his eyes roamed over Peter's face.

“I may be crazy, Peter, but I'm not stupid. Watching you is the best show in town.” He chuckled, devouring Peter's face with his famished gaze. “It’s the only show. Why would I spoil that?”

***

“I don’t know why you feel the need to keep asking. It’s obvious what my motive was. I’ve never made any secret of it.” Sylar was responding to Peter’s question about his crimes. As they approached the tall arch at the entrance to Washington Square Park, he glanced over at the EMT walking beside him. Peter wasn’t likely to be shut down so easily. Sylar scanned the scenery while Peter continued with his relentless demand for answers.

“You’re either not getting what I’m asking or you’re deliberately misunderstanding,” Peter said. “I know that you were going after people for their abilities. That was the hunger, right? The part of your original ability that made you want more powers? Everybody wants things but most people don’t kill to get what they want.”

“I’m not most people, Peter. I’m evil. I thought you knew that.”

“That’s a cop out, Sylar, and you know it. Evil isn’t what someone is. It’s what they do. It’s a choice.”

“Please tell me you aren’t naive enough to believe that old saw that there’s good in everyone?”

“I haven’t met everyone. We’re talking about you.” Score another point for Peter with the puppy-dog eyes and the determination of a pit bull with its prey firmly clamped in its powerful jaws.

“Nuh uh,” Sylar said. If he couldn’t dislodge this stubborn rock of a man, he’d at least put him on the defensive. “If I have to answer your questions then you’re not going to worm out of answering mine.”

“Fine. What’s the question?”

“Stalin. Hitler. Idi Amin. Osama bin Laden. Evil or not?” Sylar slid his hands into his pockets and waited for Peter’s response, wearing his practiced smug expression. Even kind, soft-hearted Peter couldn't be an apologist for history's worst tyrants.

“I would say all of them committed tremendous evil but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a choice or that they couldn’t have done better things with their lives.” Now Peter’s hands went to his pockets, mirroring Sylar’s body language.

It wasn't the first time Sylar had observed Peter mimicking his gestures. Must be some Petrelli mind trick. He was tempted to dance the hokey pokey just to see if Peter would follow suit. Suppressing a grin at his own humor, he parried back at Peter. “So you think Hitler could have been a good guy? If only his paintings had sold, imagine the gifts he could have given to the world. Obviously you've never read _Mein Kampf.”_

“I've read it.” Peter snapped, pulling his hands from his pockets to gesture with them. “I'm saying that calling yourself evil implies that you're not really to blame for what you've done. Not that you didn't do it but that you had no choice in the matter because killing is in your nature.”

“Killers kill. It _is_ their nature. Why is that so hard for you to accept? Does it upset your optimistic worldview? ‘All you need is love’ and all that hippie posturing?”

“Stop treating me like an idiot. You’re trying to take the focus off yourself. It’s about free will. We're not robots acting out our programming. We make choices and we deal with the consequences.”

Peter aimed a scowl at Sylar and took off toward the fountain that dominated the park’s central plaza. The low-hanging sun cast an orange glow on the water, making the falling droplets shimmer like thousands of tiny flames. Sylar followed as Peter climbed over the rim of the fountain and sat with his feet on the top step. Sylar easily swung his legs over the edge to sit beside him. Ignoring Sylar, the EMT removed his shoes, peeled off his socks and rolled up the legs of his jeans. Peter descended the steps and waded into the shallow pool as the arcing streams rained down on him. Sylar watched with an amused smirk. Peter turned towards him, returning the smirk, and bent to dip his hands in the water. A moment later, he snapped his hands up, sending a wave of water splashing at Sylar.

“What the- Cut it out, Petrelli!” Sylar spluttered, jumping to his feet.

“Make me.” Peter grinned.

“You're going to regret saying that!” Sylar toed his shoes and socks off and folded the hem of his pant legs, following Peter into the fountain.

“Uh oh, I’m scared now,” Peter said as Sylar approached him with his chin lowered, glowering from under his dark eyebrows. Sylar reached for him and Peter ducked, then soaked Sylar's face with another splash. Sylar switched gears and instead of trying to dunk Peter, splashed him back. His large hands gave him the advantage of wetting Peter more than Peter had done to him. They were both getting drenched from overhead too.

For a few minutes all they did was splash one another and Sylar’s earlier pique evaporated in the enjoyment of the game. When Peter let his guard down, Sylar grabbed him by the shoulders but the smaller man was tenacious and strong. He wrestled Sylar to his kneesq and dunked him. Sylar came up glaring daggers at Peter, who was standing over him laughing. He shoved Peter with both hands, knocking him backward. Peter was still smiling when he regained his feet, whipping his wet hair out of his face and looking around. Sylar had taken a seat on the steps and was finger-combing his hair into place.

“Come on in, the water’s fine!” Peter called out from beneath the cascading streams, turning his face up and spreading his arms as if receiving a benediction. It was goofy, which Sylar knew Peter could be from Nathan’s memories. He smiled to see Peter relaxing around him. Finally Peter waded over to where Sylar sat. “Had enough? 

“My goal was to dunk you so mission accomplished,” Sylar said, still grinning. “When you mentioned consequences earlier, were you talking about punishment?”

“Not really. Punishment and consequences aren’t the same. Punishment is...retribution. Consequences are just the results of our actions.” Peter shrugged. “I splash you, you dunk me. If you touch a hot stove, you burn your hand. Hopefully you don’t do that again.”

Sylar had his own thoughts on the topic but he probed to see what Peter believed. “That sounds like punishment.”

“Sometimes. Not always. People escape punishment all the time. Bank robbers don’t get caught, but did they really get away with it if they’re always looking over their shoulder? That’s a consequence.”

“You obviously believe they deserve to have that constant anxiety,” Sylar said, arching a questioning eyebrow at Peter because hot stoves and bank robbers were subtext for the crimes Sylar had committed. “Doesn’t your moral code require that wrongdoers feel some kind of pain in return for what they’ve done?”

“Everybody experiences pain, Sylar, and most people don’t deserve it. I’ve seen it with my patients. Good people suffering horribly from illness or injuries. Or babies dying. Why? There’s no answer.” Sylar could tell when Peter was warming to a topic by how much he gesticulated while speaking. He could barely say anything unless he was moving. It was fascinating to watch the expressive EMT in motion.

“Some people say God blesses them but then why doesn’t he bless everybody?” Peter said. “I don’t think it works that way. We just have to make the most of whatever we get. For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen punishment make anybody a better person. Some people learn from consequences, but that’s different.”

“What about you, Peter?” Sylar tilted his head in curiosity. “What have you learned from consequences?”

“Obviously not a lot, or I wouldn’t keep touching the hot stove.” Peter waggled his brows and grinned and Sylar had to laugh. Peter had his blind spots but at least he wore his imperfections with good humor, unlike the insufferable Parkman or the forever stoic Bennet.

“Does that make me the hot stove?” Sylar leered. “It’s not your hands I want to burn.”

Peter ignored the remark and cupped his hands in the fountain. Pivoting back to Sylar, he poured water over his head, wrecking his hairstyle for the second time that day.

“I baptize you Sylar, splasher extraordinaire, and welcome you into the community of holy waders.”

The memory of being baptized at the carnival arose unwelcome in Sylar’s mind. Samuel had immersed him in a pool, offering a family, security and a place to belong - another liar dangling promises with the intent to use him.

“Holy waders, huh?” Sylar rose to his feet and gave Peter a playful shove. “Come on, Petrelli, let’s go dry off and have dinner.”

Peter stared at Sylar in mock-solemnity but the twitching corner of his mouth gave him away. “That was a sacred ritual. You’re supposed to say ‘amen.’”

“Amen,” Sylar said, slicking his wet hair back off his forehead.

***

It was another beautiful day in Never Neverland and Peter Pan, the lost boy who never gave up, was wasting his time hammering away at the impenetrable brick wall. He’d been in such a good mood lately, ever since Sylar had agreed to help him with his rescue mission, but today, he was irritable. Sylar itched to know why. Failing that, he desired to provoke his companion and watch him get riled up.

“Why so grumpy, Peter? Bad night’s sleep?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Peter kept at it, slamming the sledgehammer into the wall with determined, but ultimately useless, precision and not sparing so much as a glance at Sylar, who was sitting on the ground to Peter’s left.

“A nightmare? Tell me about it. You’ll feel better when you get it off your chest.” Speaking of Peter’s chest, Sylar wished the EMT would take his shirt off. It was warm enough, the July sun baking the concrete so that it was too hot to sit on, hence, the magazine tucked under Sylar’s rear. He'd be glad to help Peter put sunscreen on his back.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The note of finality in his voice persuaded Sylar to try another tack, leading Peter into a conversational maze about his complicated relationships with his family, including his indestructible niece and her father, the man in the horn-rimmed glasses. Soon enough, they were arguing.

“You’ve always been loyal to the wrong people and look where it’s gotten you. You need to think more and feel less.”

“The wrong people? They were all the people that I had.” Peter said, sending a withering glare Sylar’s way. “Noah isn’t such a bad guy. He wants to protect his family, he just goes about it the wrong way.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been on the wrong end of Bennet’s brand of torture. Anyway, you did have other options.” Silently, he counted off the number of seconds until Peter looked at him in reaction to that comment. Three. The sideways tilt of Sylar’s chin complete with raised eyebrows might not have been the smartest gesture when Peter held a sledgehammer in his hands.

“What? You? Was I supposed to be joining you in your mission to kill the president?”

  
“Of course not. But I was your brother once. You could have helped me. I rescued you twice. I’ve let you live other times. Even after what you did to me at Mercy.”

Peter stopped hammering and turned to face Sylar head-on. “Sylar, I don’t understand what you expect from me. You bring up things from the past as if I knew you then the way I do now. You weren’t my brother. You were the guy who was always trying to kill me. A few times you succeeded. We’ve been getting along lately...why are you picking a fight?”

“Obviously I want to get a reaction,” Sylar said, ascending to his feet in one fluid motion.

“Obviously. Why?”

“Because you’re so delicious when you’re angry.” He circled Peter just for the fun of seeing whether Peter would turn around, pleased when Peter did. He enjoyed pushing buttons. Knowing he could stir Peter's emotions was a powerful feeling.

“Cut it out. Why do you go out of your way to piss me off?” For someone with such a sweet face, Peter had perfected the stare of death.

“I like knowing where I stand.”

“So when I’m angry that tells you…?” Peter shrugged. “I give up. It sounds like you get your kicks being a thorn in my side.”

“If that's what it takes but there are things I'd rather be.”

“Such as?”

Peter was so gullible. He always fell for Sylar’s set-ups. Closing the distance between them, Sylar grasped Peter’s face between his hands and in his deepest, most seductive voice, he answered. “Lover? Best friend? Worst enemy? I’m not picky.” 

Peter’s eyes widened and Sylar couldn’t decode the meaning but since Peter wasn’t pushing him away or punching him, he decided he liked the reaction. The hot-blooded EMT spurned his advances every time but not before allowing some sparks to ignite. It was a game that Sylar loved to play over and over. All too soon, Peter disengaged, pulling Sylar’s hands away and backing him up with a push against his chest.

“The first two aren’t happening and I’m trying not to be the last one. Stop provoking me. It isn’t going to get you what you want.” The firm set of Peter’s jaw told Sylar that he wasn’t kidding and Sylar accepted his defeat knowing it had been laced with the victory of getting so close.

“Peter,” he said, breathing out the syllables, “you never let me have any fun.”

 

***

“That guy you’ve talked about, your EMT partner, was he your best friend?” The sun cast long shadows as Sylar and Peter left the wall behind them for the day. Sylar walked beside Peter with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Hesam?” Peter said. “I consider him a friend. Why do you ask?”  
  
“Not your best friend, then?”

“Hesam is a great guy.” Peter lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Abilities are hard on relationships, y’know? I haven't been close to anyone in a while.”

“What about us? Are we friends?” Sylar made a pretense of being fascinated with their shadows advancing across the sidewalk, hoping his question didn't sound as needy as it felt. He stole a look at Peter in time to see the shorter man pull back his head and blink several times. Whether it was in surprise or disgust, Sylar couldn’t tell.

“That’s not a fair question,” Peter said, drawing the words out in a slow, stilted fashion while his brows knitted over downcast eyes. “We have a lot of reasons not to think of one another as friends, Sylar.”

Sylar went back to contemplating their larger than life shadows. Why was he pursuing this useless topic? Peter was tolerating him. He might even say that Peter was enjoying his company. It felt desperate to always be pushing for more and yet the words came to his lips and spilled out, unbidden. “You've told me things that nobody else knows.”

“This situation isn't normal. We aren't here together because we've chosen to pal around. We're not likely to forget who we are to each other.”

“Because of Nathan.” Sylar suppressed a sigh at the invisible elephant who stomped his way through every interaction between himself and Peter. “You think it would be disloyal.”

“Because of _us.”_ Peter insisted.

“Because I'm a killer.” Sylar opened the door to the restaurant where they were going to have dinner and held it for Peter, who had said earlier that he was craving Indian food.

“Well, yeah. But also because I don't know why.” Peter stopped at the door, shifting his weight and speaking animatedly. The way Peter communicated with his whole body, especially when the topic generated a lot of feeling, made Sylar think of a giant punctuation mark. Peter said, “I'm having a hard time reconciling the guy who committed all those murders with the person who brings me sandwiches, keeps me from working myself into a stupor and watches over me when I sleep. I don’t get it. I won’t until you explain it to me.”

With that, Peter stepped through the open doorway and headed for the kitchen since there was no waiter to take their order, nor a chef to prepare it.

“I've told you about my parents,” Sylar said to Peter’s retreating back, following the shorter man.

“You told me about the memory you recovered and about your mom being religious.” Peter looked over his shoulder, sending a flash of sympathy towards Sylar. “What you shared was...pretty horrible. I’m sorry that happened to you. I feel like there's a lot more, though, that you’re not willing to talk about.”

Peter busied himself with retrieving items from the refrigerator while Sylar grabbed plates, drinking glasses and utensils. Sylar was glad the activity kept Peter too occupied to pin him with that intense hazel gaze, instead glancing over every so often while moving about the kitchen. “Most of the time I have no idea what you're feeling or why, except when you’re angry,” Peter said. “That seems to be the only emotion you’re willing to express.”

“Why do you need to know? I've said I'll help you rescue your friends. Why can’t that be enough?”

Peter’s arms were full of food containers that he laid on the stainless steel counter. He stared at them as if he didn’t know what came next. For a few seconds, he didn’t say or do anything. “I appreciate that you're going to help me but that's not why I'm asking. I don't need to know. I want to.” Sylar waited, suspecting Peter had more to say because the moody hero didn’t confine himself to answers that were short and sweet. The EMT finally looked up from the kitchen counter. “You want me to trust you, right? I trust you to keep your word. I trust you not to kill me, at least not now, unless maybe it’s a fight that gets out of hand. But what happens when we get out of here and you have your abilities again in a world full of specials?”

“Why would I kill you, Peter? I don't need your ability.”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about. I don't want to go back to the way we were before, you hunting specials and me trying to stop you. This agreement we have, where you’re going to help me and we get along - it’s a truce, or a timeout. It's not a resolution.”

The fear that lurked behind Sylar’s arrogant exterior voiced itself but he willed his body into stillness that would not betray him. “Maybe resolution isn’t possible.” It came out sounding much more cavalier than he felt.

“Maybe not. That's up to you.” Peter stopped what he was doing once more, scrutinizing his companion in a way that made Sylar feel exposed. He didn’t know what it meant that resolution was up to him. How could it be when it was Peter’s perception of him that determined his fate? “But if there’s no way to resolve things, then you understand why us being friends is complicated.”

“I understand that I’m in a different category than your hero friends and your family.”

“Do you understand why?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Sylar,” Peter said, his voice soft. “You brought this topic up with the question you asked. If this isn’t the conversation you had in mind, we can drop it.” Shifting his attention back to preparing the food, Peter opened several containers and turned on the stove. The aroma of curry reminded Sylar that he was hungry. Food was only one of his appetites that wasn't easily dulled.

“It was a simple question.”

“It doesn’t have a simple answer.” Peter didn’t look up from the frying pan that he was heating.

“Yes it does. The question was ‘are we friends.’ The answer that you can’t seem to spit out is ‘no.’ See how easy that was?” Sylar snatched the glasses and utensils and stalked off to set a table near the window.

 

***

They were in Sylar's apartment a few nights later and Peter was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his guitar in his lap while he tuned the instrument. He was telling Sylar a story about Izzy, the dog he'd had growing up. Arthur had never liked Izzy and the feeling was mutual. One day, Arthur had been leaving for an important business meeting when Izzy’s aging bladder gave way and he expelled a stream of urine on Arthur's expensive dress shoes.

“Goddamn it, get this mutt out of here!” Arthur had sputtered but what had made it truly hilarious was Angela's reply.

In her trademark pragmatic, cool tone, she had said, “He's an old dog, dear, and you must have a dozen pairs of those shoes. There's no need to get so pissed off.”

Peter ended the story there, smiling at the memory as he privately recalled the rest of it. After Arthur had stomped upstairs to change his shoes, Peter and Nathan had exchanged a look, holding back guffaws until they glanced at their mother, who had cracked the barest hint of a smile. At that, the brothers collapsed in laughter. “Pissed off, oh jeez, Ma, I gotta hand it to you. You always know exactly what to say.” Nathan could hardly get the words out, he'd been so convulsed. Peter recalled how he and his brother had fallen against each other, weak from laughing so hard.

“Yes, I remember that,” Sylar murmured, apparently unaware of his error in usurping Nathan's memory until Peter glared at him and breathed out an irritated sigh. Sylar didn't apologize. The words “I'm sorry” didn’t trip off his tongue easily from what Peter could tell. For someone whose sarcasm could be classified as a lethal weapon, Sylar's gift for words didn't extend to heartfelt expressions. He did have the grace to lower his gaze when Peter made his annoyance evident.

“It must be confusing to have his memories,” Peter said, seeking to understand why Sylar would quote Nathan when he had made it clear many times what he thought of Peter's brother - nothing good. Peter had tried to skirt any mention of his brother when he told the Izzy story, he just hadn't been thinking. Of course if Nathan had been there, then Sylar had the memory. “D’you sometimes still think you’re him?”

“Do you?”

“Not even a little bit. You’re nothing like my brother.” He didn’t say it to insult Sylar. It was merely the truth.

“Of course I’m not like him,” Sylar snapped. “I’m much more loyal.”

Peter didn’t take Sylar’s bait. He wasn’t going to fight with the man about his brother’s shortcomings. Nathan was human, flawed and complicated like everyone else. Peter loved him anyway and he knew his love had been returned.

“I don’t know how loyal you are since we’ve almost always been adversaries, but yeah, you did come back for me at Pinehearst and I know I survived that fall because of you. You still haven’t answered my question, though,” Peter said, leaning forward with his gaze intent on the other men. “Do you sometimes think you’re Nathan, because of the memories?”

“You’re like a pit bull that won't let go,” Sylar said, scowling. “I don’t think I’m him. It’s not like the memories come with labels. Mostly my own memories take precedence. It's just that sometimes his come forward. I don't always notice until I see your reaction. Other times I know the words are his and I shouldn't say them but they come out anyway.”

Peter thought that over, absently plucking the guitar strings and studying Sylar while he imagined what it might be like to have memories that weren’t his own. It only raised more questions and since Sylar was talking, he decided to ask. “Is there a pattern or things that trigger the memories? Or is it emotional, like you get upset or angry and Nathan comes out?” Peter didn't think it was only when Sylar was angry because the Izzy story was funny.

“Nathan does not come out,” Sylar said through clenched teeth. “He’s not in me, it’s just his memories. And no, it’s not emotional. Leave it to you to make everything about feelings.”

“I don’t believe you. I think it is emotional. You seem to think that it’s unmanly to talk about feelings or to even have any but you’re not going to make me ashamed of it.”

“I’m done talking, Petrelli,” Sylar said. “Why don’t you play that guitar?”

Peter noted the use of his last name. Sylar always made it sound like an epithet.

Sylar was probably right though. The conversation had become too tense. With a quiet inhalation to center himself, Peter looped the guitar strap over his shoulder and glanced up at Sylar. “You wanna get yours and jam with me?”

“No, not right now.” Sylar leaned back against the couch and rested his arms along the top of the backrest as he watched Peter play. It was a relaxed posture, a display of confidence and control, but Peter wasn’t buying it. Sylar was rattled.

The exchange about Nathan’s memories gnawed at Peter for days. There was something he needed to understand. It was a difficult topic, though, and it would disrupt the peace he and Sylar had been experiencing. Peter waited for the incident to be smoothed over by more pleasant interactions before bringing it up again. He and Sylar were in the diner, which for some reason was the site of so many of their most important conversations.

“I’m curious about something, Sylar,” Peter began, trying his best to look and sound as if this were an off-hand thought that had just occurred to him. He twirled spaghetti around his fork, stopping with the loaded utensil in midair before glancing at Sylar. “How many times did you meet my brother, in person?”

Sylar’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?” He bit into his burger and chewed, watching Peter the whole time.

“I just want to know. Did you and he spend a lot of time together? He never mentioned it but Nathan and I weren’t talking much for a while, and later, well, we never got a chance to catch up on everything that happened.” Peter focused on his food while waiting for Sylar’s reply.

“I think you know the answer and you're stringing me along to make a point. Spit it out already.” Sylar speared a french fry with his fork and bit into it.

“I'm trying to understand why you hate him so much. You barely knew him.”

“You don’t think having all of his stupid memories is enough of a reason? Then how about this - if he hadn't tried to get in my way, none of it would have happened.”

“I got in your way too,” Peter said, eyebrows ascending at the idea that Nathan could be posthumously blamed for what had been done with his memories. “More than he did in fact. So that's why you're always so angry. You blame him for what happened and you think it's my fault too.”

  
“Of course it's your fault. All of you - him, your mother, Parkman, Bennet.”

“Well Nathan was dead so it wasn't his idea to put his memories in your head. If I remember correctly, you killed him. But that's why you hate him, that's why you think he’s an asshole. I guess I'm an asshole too, right?” Peter pushed his plate away, his appetite gone.

“I never said that, Peter. I don't agree with everything you've done. Big surprise. Yes, I blame you for the Mercy Heights makeover attempt and your skill with the nail gun. It would have been kinder to kill me. You're supposed to be all about ‘do unto others.’”

Peter winced inwardly at the dig about Mercy Heights. What he'd done was cruel and indefensible. He didn't want to think about that so he chased the issue that had been puzzling him. “So you hate that Nathan was rounding up specials. But wasn't that what you were doing when you worked with Danko? Before that you were killing specials. Now you're acting as if you're some kind of advocate for people with abilities.”

“You wouldn't understand and I'm not going to try to explain it.”

“That's your standard fallback. But you know what? You're right. I probably wouldn't understand how you justify your actions and yet you blame me for things and you constantly call my brother, who you _killed_ , an asshole.” Peter squeezed and released the napkin in his hand multiple times, until it was reduced to a small, tight ball.

“Peter, I haven't said a word about your brother in ages. You brought him up, not me. You think I like hearing you prattle on about him? I let you talk because that's what you seem to need to do and I just keep my mouth shut. Nathan this and Nathan that.” Sylar’s mobile face was a study in non-verbal communication - lips tightening, jaw clenching, eyes flicking towards Peter and then away. The rest of him remained rigid and still.

“Nathan, your wonderful big brother who always took care of you and had your back. Except when he didn't. Except when I had to rescue you from Dad, Arthur - twice - because where was Nathan? Oh right he was helping your father. So spare me the sanctimony about why I feel the way I do about your precious brother. After all he's done, he gets a pass and you still worship him. You _forgive_ him. Fine! But don't expect me to see him through your rose colored glasses.” A contemptuous frown signaled the end of the diatribe.

There was so much Peter wanted to say to all that. In nearly every conversation they’d had about the past, Sylar had reversed the timeline so thoroughly, Peter could almost believe he’d stolen Hiro’s power. Sylar cast himself as the victim who reacted to what was done to him when it was his own actions that had set so much of their turbulent history in motion. Now he was painting himself as the hero in contrast with Nathan.

Peter said nothing but an idea occurred to him that left him gaping at Sylar with his mouth ajar. What was it Sylar had said about his nightmare? “You let everyone get their hooks in you…” Snatches of other conversations came back to him. “That makes me a better friend…” “Dysfunctional relationships are better than none.” “Your hero buddies…”And just now, “Nathan this and Nathan that.” Of course. It made sense.

“Ah, the truth dawns on Peter Petrelli. I can see from your face that you get it now. I’m right and you know it.” Sylar leaned back in the booth and folded his arms, wearing the smug expression that Peter found so antagonizing.

“Yeah I get it alright. You’re jealous.” Peter mirrored Sylar’s posture, watching closely for the other man’s reaction.

Sylar snorted. “Of him? Please. He was terrified of abilities. Why I would be jealous of that?” He picked up his burger again and gave full attention to his meal in an arrogant display of nonchalance.

“It’s not just Nathan. You’re jealous of everyone. I guess they don’t call envy one of the seven deadly sins for nothing. That’s why you take abilities, isn’t it? Why you kill people? To be special. Maybe we should throw gluttony in there too, and what the hell, how about pride? But it doesn’t work because everyone else has something you don’t have. You have all the power in the world and you still feel like you’re nobody.”

“Shut up, Peter. Just shut the fuck up.” Sylar shifted in his seat, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the table and leveling an icy glare at Peter. “Don’t tell me how I feel. You have no clue. I have all his memories. He treated you like shit, you ate it up and went back for more and you’re still doing it.”

Sylar was trying to wind him up but Peter wasn’t going to let his temper get the best of him. “No, Sylar,” he said, shaking his head. “I was _there_. I know my brother loved me. If you have all of his memories then you know how many times he risked his ass to save mine. It must have sucked for you at Kirby Square. You went there to kill me, didn’t you? You thought you were going to stop me from blowing up New York and be a hero and instead it was everyone else against _you_. My hero buddies, right?” 

“You’re treading on dangerous ground. You might want to stop before you get in over your head.” Sylar's voice was tight with warning that Peter dismissed.

“Nathan came to save me. He stopped the bomb, not you. Then you were going to kill the president and Nathan was the hero again. Yeah he fucked up, a lot. I never said he was perfect.” Recalling his estrangement from Nathan and their later reconciliation just before he'd lost his brother forever loosened the knot of sorrow that Peter kept locked inside himself. It made his throat ache and he had to blink several times to restrain the emotions that wanted to escape the dark corner he'd shoved them into. “But he always made it right. He made amends. Nathan salvaged his reputation and his relationships, something you couldn’t do because you never had a reputation except as a killer and you didn’t have any relationships because you killed everyone who came near you.” The volume in Peter’s voice had escalated as he spoke, his final words booming loudly in the otherwise quiet diner. 

“You have no idea what you're talking about, how many people I’ve saved and how many are still alive because I didn't kill them.”

“Saving a few people doesn't begin to make up for all the ones you’ve killed. If you have it in you to help instead of hurt then you know you have the capacity to be better. You chose not to be.”

“Say anything else, Petrelli, and I'm going to make you sorry you were ever born.”

Peter laughed, bitterness laced with contempt. “You know what the biggest irony is, Sylar? You getting the memories of the guy you're most jealous of, the guy who had everything you wanted. You wish you were as good as Nathan.”

“You little prick!” Sylar lunged across the table panther-like to grab Peter by the collar but Peter was faster, springing out of the booth and leaving Sylar to clutch fistfuls of empty air. Sylar's motion had caused his plate to skitter to the edge of the table. “You’re an idiot. You’re so blinded by hero worship you don’t see what’s right in front of you. I am not jealous of goddamn Nathan. It was _never_ about him! He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then what was it about? And quit with the threats while you're at it. You're not going to kill me. We're past that.”

“It’s complicated.”

Peter paced around the diner, giving his angry companion a wide berth in case he attacked again. “There you go again,” he said, his hand flying up, “with your cryptic comments like there’s some deep dark mystery that I’m just too dense to get. I don’t think you even know yourself why you’ve done all the things you have.”

“You’re right!” Sylar bellowed, the sound echoing off the walls of the desolate diner. Sliding out of the booth, he stood near the glass door and slammed the heel of his hand against it. “Don’t you think I know that?” He spun back to face Peter, shouting. “You think you’re the only one who wants answers, who’s tormented by the past and all the what ifs? I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. I deserve this - this nothingness. There’s not enough punishment in the world to make any sense of it. It can’t be fixed! I can’t make up for it. None of it!” Sylar was breathing hard but all the tightly-wound tension seemed to have escaped him like air leaking out of a balloon.

Peter knew he’d been hard on Sylar with the things he had said. He was getting some of what he wanted from the man, if not answers then at least a display of emotion that told him that Sylar did have feelings about the terrible crimes he had committed. He was gratified, too, that although it had nearly come to blows, they were both still standing and Sylar appeared to be winding down.

Inching closer to Sylar, he reached out tentatively with the intention of calming the other man via touch, the way he had done so many times before. “Nobody deserves what Matt did to you, Sylar. Idon’t know what the right punishment would be but torture isn’t the answer.”

With a forceful shrug, Sylar shook Peter’s hand off his arm. “Oh you’ve finally figured that out, have you? If there’s anything I don’t deserve, Peter, it’s you.” He reached for the door, flung it open and walked out.

 

***

Peter stayed away from Sylar for several days, trying to convince himself that it was just another of their many setbacks. They’d been getting along so well until the scene in the diner. Peter had fought this war within himself since his abilities manifested, disgusted that he could be provoked into beating another human being into surrender. He’d done it to Sylar so many times and the only difference today was that he’d used words to injure the other man. Granted, Sylar’s actions were the catalyst but did that excuse Peter’s reaction? Was there another way to get through to him?

Extending kindness had made Peter feel another kind of guilt in equal measure, helping a killer, but as a nurse and an EMT, Peter couldn’t leave anyone, even Sylar, broken and bleeding. Whether the wounds he inflicted were physical or emotional, hurting others or failing to help them when he could was wrong. Peter knew that just as well as he knew that the definition of evil was knowingly choosing to do wrong. But what else could he do when Sylar presented himself as a riddle that he expected Peter to solve, a puzzle whose solution was only valuable if Peter figured it out without Sylar's help. And then Sylar asked for trust and friendship. Sylar wasn’t a psychopath. He had displayed flashes of mercy and kindness. But what he was, how he got that way and what he really wanted were mysteries that the years alone together had not unlocked. The only thing that Peter was sure of was that killing hadn't satisfied Sylar; it tormented him. 

After four days, Peter was bored with his own company and lack of activity. He returned to the wall. Sylar arrived like the clockwork that he was with coffee and breakfast for himself and Peter. Other than a chilly greeting, they ate in silence. Sylar left, came back with lunch and departed again. Peter didn’t go to his apartment for dinner since he hadn’t gotten the impression his company would be welcomed. He let it be. They’d had setbacks in the past and it would take time to smooth over the rough places in their rocky relationship. It would never be peaceful or easy.

Baby steps, Peter told himself, as he continued hammering. “It’s you or me,” Peter said to the wall, setting his jaw, “and it’s not going to be me. You’re going down.” His sledgehammer made contact, metal on brick, sending vibrations up Peter’s arms. Over and over, until he was spent, muscles burning, sweat trickling into his eyes, only to repeat it all the next day and the day after that and yet again. It was never-ending.

Days morphed into a week and each day was like the one before. Sylar, food, silence, Peter hammering the wall, alone. It was passive-aggressive for Sylar to make his presence known while refusing to engage. If he expected Peter to beg him to talk, or to extend an apology, that wasn’t going to happen. Peter didn’t owe him anything. It wasn't like Sylar had ever apologized for the things he’d done.

The quiet was wearing on Peter. In an empty world where nothing ever happened except between its two solitary inhabitants, it was hard to find new topics to talk about, but Peter had tried conversational overtures. Sylar didn’t ignore him, he just wouldn’t return the volley. Peter, who had relished occasional solitude in a tumultuous world where responsibilities had lain heavy on his shoulders, found himself at loose ends. He was lonely, talking to himself if only to hear a sound other than his own breathing or the hammering sledgehammer. With all his reserves of patience depleted, Peter was done with this uneasy truce and determined to force a confrontation with Sylar. He laid down the sledgehammer and went back to his apartment to wash up before paying a visit to his reluctant ally.  
  
Sylar opened the door to Peter’s knock, looking him up and down without saying a word. It was hardly a positive sign, rude and dismissive as it was. 

“Can I come in?” Peter raised his eyebrows in supplication. Sylar stood aside and swung his arm to the side in an exaggerated gesture of silent and sarcastic welcome.

It was obvious to Peter that the man wasn't going to make this easy.

Sylar closed the door and faced Peter with his arms crossed, thumbs up and resting on his biceps. Peter stood stiffly with his hands at his sides.

“So this is it? We're just not going to talk?”

“Talk all you want, Petrelli. You always do.” He looked down at Peter from his considerable height advantage.

“Petrelli again. You say it like it's a curse.” Peter grumbled, shaking his head.

 “If the shoe fits…It is your name, after all. You may think you're different from your family - the hero, the good one.” He rolled his eyes. “You try, Peter. I'll give you that. But you can't escape who you are anymore than I can be anything but the monster I am. We're damaged goods. You came here to manipulate me into being your weapon, same as they have. Job well done. I’m all you've got and you still won’t accept it. Famous Peter Petrelli stubbornness.” Chuckling bitterly, he turned his back on Peter and headed toward the kitchen.

This wasn't going the way Peter had hoped it would, although he didn't know what he had expected. Maybe Sylar had a point. Peter hadn't come here to rescue him. He needed the other man's help and he hadn't requested it, he simply had taken it for granted that Sylar would go along with it. Like Sylar owed it to him. Then again, Sylar was hardly a victim even though he apparently enjoyed the role.

“For one thing,” Peter said, following him, “we could talk about your part in all this. You seem to think I should forget everything you’ve done and accept that you’re a good guy now. What assurances do I have that that’s true?”

Sylar swung back to face him, eyes flashing. “Don’t confuse me with yourself. I never said I was a good guy. But tell me, is that what you are? God knows, you’ve bashed my face in enough times to get your point across. Please show me, oh heroic one, how I can be as good as you! Were you being a good guy when you nailed me to a piece of plywood and tortured me into being your brother?”

Peter hung his head, unwilling to meet the other man’s angry gaze because Sylar was right and it made his chest ache as if Sylar had grabbed his heart and squeezed it hard.

“No, that was wrong. That was me acting out of anger and thinking I could bring Nathan back. I wanted my brother. I wanted to hurt you in the process.”He raised his eyes slowly to the other man. “You took him from me! You’ve killed so many people. Have you ever stopped to think about how that feels to the people who’ve lost their loved ones? It fucking hurts. Every. Damn. Day. And here I am, hanging out with you, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. I think that's pretty damn good. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” Sylar gritted out, glaring at Peter from under his heavy brows. “I didn’t ask you to come here and don’t act like I haven’t been good to you, either. I've been trying to show you but you know the saying. There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

“Show me what?”

“Never mind. It’s too late for that anyway. If you came here to apologize, then go ahead. Do it! But if you expect an apology from me? There’s the door.” He threw his hand out and Peter flinched, anticipating a strike that never came.

“Really, Sylar?” Peter scoffed, stung by Sylar’s rejection of everything he was and had done. He didn’t think he could be hurt anymore by someone who had already ruined him so completely. “That’s how you want to play it? More of your mysterious statements and I’m supposed to apologize to you when you killed my brother and all you’ve done since is insult his memory? You’ve never shown you were sorry for any of it. It’s been your actions all along that have gotten you where you are now.” 

“Yes. That’s how I’m playing it. You’re the one who wants something from me. You don’t have anything _I_ need or want.” Venom dripped from Sylar’s voice and contorted his face into a smug and hateful mask as he pointed his finger in Peter’s face.

“Fine,” Peter said, and shrugged, shouldering his way past the wrathful, shaking man staring down at him. “You don’t need me around? I’m gone. Have fun being alone again.” Inside he was seething but he wasn’t going to give Sylar the satisfaction of showing it.

Sylar followed him, yanking the door open and holding it as if ready to slam it behind Peter. Peter stomped out, glancing Sylar’s way just in time to see the other man’s face sneering at him. “Good riddance,” Sylar said. _“Petrelli.”_

Moving faster than Sylar had time to react, Peter threw his fist at the man's face, knocking him backwards. Sylar stumbled and windmilled his arms to maintain his balance.

“Later,” Peter sneered back. Muttering under his breath, he pulled the door shut behind him. “Asshole!”

That had been yesterday and now Peter was leaving, his guitar and a backpack slung over his shoulder. A part of him had wanted to go back and check on Sylar, to make sure he wasn’t injured from the punch, though Peter didn't think he'd put that much force into it. He gave into his lesser angels and ignored, for once, his remorseful caretaking self.

The city was bathed in the soft golden light of sunrise when Peter exited his apartment building the morning after the argument and headed north. When he had been walking for about a mile, he stopped to look back the way he had come.

“I don't know what you want from me, Sylar,” he said to the hushed city. “Whatever it is, you're going about it all wrong.” Peter turned and began walking once more.

 

***

Sylar tended his bruised cheek by wrapping a bag of frozen vegetables in a dish towel and applying it where Peter had hit him. It was hardly the first time Peter had punched him, nor the first time he’d done so without warning. It was so typical of Petrellis. Sylar knew that was a lie as soon as he'd thought it. Peter was the hot-headed Petrelli, the emotional one with his heart on his sleeve and conviction shining from those hazel eyes. Arthur and Angela were far too cool to lose their tempers when everything was at stake. And Nathan - he was decisive and in command. He just made lousy decisions. Peter wasn’t like any of them, not cool and calculating; he simply leapt into situations without any thought for consequences or safety.

 _Now what?_ A part of Sylar worried but he pushed the thoughts away. Peter would be back tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. He just needed space, as usual. Sylar sat at his workbench and lifted his latest treasure. It was a sterling silver pocket watch with a mother-of-pearl face, Roman numerals on the dial and an elegant scrolled pattern engraved on its case. The winding mechanism was stuck, probably over-wound by its previous owner. He shook his head, annoyed at that non-existent person for being so careless with this beautiful, delicate object. People never learned, did they? They took for granted that anything could be easily fixed or replaced and that wasn’t always the case. Sylar examined the watch, turning it over lovingly in his hands. It was exceptionally well-made, far too special for whomever had owned it. Now it was his and he knew just what to do. He lost himself taking the watch apart, his fingers nimble and gentle and his tools precise, repairing the exquisite timepiece with great patience and care.

It was nearly midnight by the time Sylar had finished with the pocket watch and tinkered with his other clocks and timepieces. He readied himself for bed and slid between the sheets, exhausted and yet not sleepy. He had managed to distract himself from the dilemma of the aggravating Petrelli but now it all came rushing back. His cheek ached again when he thought about Peter punching him and all the unwanted feelings it had stirred - anger, disappointment, the desire for vengeance, regret, and underneath it all, fear. Peter had said “I’m gone” and “Have fun being alone again.”

Maybe Peter wanted more than a few days of space. Would he leave? He couldn’t get far - there was nowhere else to go. Maybe that didn’t matter. The city wasn’t that big but it was large enough for a solitary man to shake off an unwelcome companion. Peter could hide from him for years, maybe forever. _What if he finds a way out?_ The maelstrom of thoughts was a guarantee that sleep would not come easily this night. Sylar considered going to Peter’s apartment to make sure he hadn’t left but he restrained himself from acting on the impulse. Barging in on Peter in the middle of the night would convince the moody hero that he really was an unhinged maniac who could not be trusted. He'd find Peter in the morning, first thing, and talk some sense into him - not that talking ever worked. With that final frustrating idea, Sylar’s thoughts began to lose coherence as sleep pulled its dark blanket over him.

There was no slow awakening for Sylar when the first light of morning streamed through his window. One minute he was sleeping and the next, he was jolted into the awareness that he needed to intercept Peter and make sure he didn't leave. Sylar dressed hurriedly in yesterday's clothes, brushed his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair, not bothering with breakfast. He rushed to Peter's building, noting that there was no light coming from his window. Perhaps he was still in bed. He took the stairs three at a time with his long legs, thoroughly winded by the time he reached Peter’s floor. Breathing hard, he banged on Peter’s door.

“Peter? It’s me, Sylar.” _Duh, who else would it be_. “Peter?” He knocked again. Peter didn’t sleep that soundly. Neither of them did. It was yet another remnant of their lives with abilities and being constantly on the run that they were always ready for action, whether they wanted to be or not. He turned the knob and, finding the door unlocked, pushed it open just enough to stick his head into the apartment. “Peter? Are you here?” He scanned the living room, already knowing the answer but unable to resist the hope that he was wrong. Opening the door wider, he entered the apartment, looking for clues. The apartment was spartan, nothing like Sylar's cluttered abode. There were no signs to tell Sylar whether Peter had simply headed out for breakfast or had left for good.

A spike of anxiety made Sylar's heart pound as he feared the worst. He headed for the bathroom, eyeing the sink top and opening the medicine cabinet. No toothbrush or toothpaste. That wasn’t hopeful. Peter's guitar was also missing. Sylar tried to imagine a scenario in which Peter would leave his apartment at dawn with his guitar and toiletries and could only come up with the answer he'd feared. Peter had left. This was a break in the usual pattern of Peter needing space. In all of their time living in the barren world together, fighting and separating, sometimes for weeks at a time, Peter had never moved out of his apartment. What did it mean? It couldn’t be anything good.

Sylar’s pounding heart was now joined by his throbbing head as all the blood in his body apparently decided to rush to his two most important organs like a river racing through opened floodgates. The fear of being alone again paralyzed him and he couldn’t think, couldn't plan. Was this what it felt like to be Peter, all emotion and no thought? Sylar went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed, wishing that at least Peter's body heat remained but the covers were drawn up and the pillows were cool to the touch when he ran his hand over them. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rested his aching head in his hands.

He allowed himself a few minutes of respite before reminding himself that he was a hunter. _Even without my abilities, I'll find him._ He made his way back to street level, cursing the season because snow on the ground would have given him a clue to follow his escaped companion. Or a fucking mudslide, he thought angrily, raking a hand through his hair. Sylar cursed Peter for leaving, cursed all of the heroes because they had Peter’s loyalty and had never helped Sylar when he wanted to change. He cursed Angela just for the hell of it, although for once, this situation wasn’t her fault. He cursed Nathan for not taking better care of a brother so loyal he still defended a dead man’s memory. Then he cursed himself for upsetting Peter enough to make him run away. 

Sylar scanned the street, taking in every detail with his keen eyes, hoping to find something out of place that would show him which way Peter had gone. In the end, there were no physical clues, only process of elimination. The island was much longer than it was wide and someone who wanted to get far away wouldn't bother going east or west. Or at least Sylar wouldn’t. Peter could have gone south but they'd learned early on that the bridges were an infinite invisible loop back to their starting point. It was unlikely to be any different further north but leave it to the ever faithful Peter Petrelli to try everything.

If Sylar was wrong, Peter would have an even bigger head start. He had to make a decision and the one thing not in short supply in this world was time. He had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but search for the impassioned Petrelli. He turned left, heading north. He stopped at a bodega along the way and grabbed a wrapped muffin, coffee, an apple and a bottle of water. The coffee helped his headache and his heart had finally ceased thudding and resumed its regular beating. Now that he'd made a decision, it felt good to hunt again, especially when his prey was the tantalizing Peter Petrelli, the most special of them all.

Not for the first time, Sylar marveled at how much faster he could travel the city when he didn’t have to share the sidewalk with hundreds of other pedestrians, nor dodge cars and wait for traffic lights. Less than an hour later, he had reached the southwest entrance to Central Park and was faced with another decision. Should he walk through the park in the hope that Peter had taken their well-trodden route? Or should he eschew the park’s winding trails for the straightforward, quicker way north via Broadway? He still had no concrete evidence he was on the right track. For all he knew, Peter could have turned east or west at any point. He could be holed up anywhere.  
  
Sylar tried putting himself in Peter’s shoes. Empathy had never been his strength but, well, this was Peter. If there was anyone he knew, it was the youngest Petrelli, thanks to their years trapped together and all of Nathan’s memories. That’s not to say Sylar understood his brooding companion. In many ways, Peter was simple. Kind, naive, passionate, stubborn. But Sylar had learned not to underestimate him. He wasn't all surface and while Peter may have been reliable, he wasn't always predictable. Sylar prided himself on his intelligence but Peter had proved himself to be a wily opponent. If not for regeneration, Sylar would have borne the scars to show for all the times Peter had bested him.

He needed to focus, so he took a seat on one of the benches lining the sidewalk adjacent to the park and, leaning back, closed his eyes. The morning sun was warm on his face, even filtered as it was by the canopy of trees edging the park.

The last person he'd tried to consciously empathize with had been Elle. He'd succeeded then because Elle had been right there with him, blasting him with her lightning and gutting him with her tears.That hadn't turned out too well after all. Sighing at the painful memory he dragged his mind back to the present. Where would Peter go? Peter didn't plan so how could Sylar use logic to find someone who acted on impulse? Nathan's memories reminded him, and his own experiences confirmed, that Peter's actions weren't completely irrational no matter how it might appear. Peter's impulses were governed by what mattered to him. Saving people. Taking care of people. Nathan. Okay that train of thought was useless. Nathan wasn't here nor were any people to save.

He was going about this all wrong. It took him a few tries to persuade his mind to think like Peter and not about him. Peter was here on a mission. He needed Sylar to help him. What did that feel like and would those feelings outline Peter’s next moves? Would Nathan know? Had he ever been able to decipher the inner workings of his beloved brother?

A flood of sensation engulfed Sylar as the dead senator’s memories paraded through his mind. He was leaving for Annapolis and Ma pressed a thermos into his hand for the early morning drive to Maryland with Arthur at the wheel. He sniffed. The coffee was strong, the way he liked it.

Ma kissing his cheek and six year old Peter’s tears wetting his face when he bent down to hug him. “Are you going to be a hero, Nathan?”“I’m gonna try, Pete. I’ll make you proud of me.”

The exhilaration of piloting a fighter jet and hoping he could make a difference.

Flying and watching a car race towards a pillar, Heidi screaming. Heidi in a wheelchair and him without a scratch on him.

“Pete, I’m going to take down Linderman. Will you help me? Will you testify?” His brother’s solemn eyes looking back at him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Of course, Nathan.”

A cell phone clattering to the ground in a vacant alley that reeked of garbage. Peter yelling down at him from the roof. “I’ve been up here all night, Nathan.” Flying up to catch Peter as he plummeted to the asphalt and the sick dread when Peter fell out of his grip. Saving and losing his brother over and over. Betraying him and feeling betrayed.

Sylar’s eyes flew open and his heart was pounding again from the adrenaline racing through his veins as the memories assaulted him. He looked at his watch. He had just relived years of Nathan’s life, but it had only been a few minutes. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. Nathan’s memories flashed by in rapid succession - triumph, loss, mistakes, betrayals, regrets. Heidi, Simon and Monty, Claire, Meredith, Tracy, Danko. His parents, his brother. Pain, fear, anger, frustration, disappointment, love, trust. Some of the memories were ones Sylar hadn’t seen before, but having lived Nathan's life for weeks and reliving the memories alone for three years, most of them were familiar. It had never been like this, though, all at once and so vivid, gripping him with the sound and color and emotion, as if it were all happening now. He’d been trying to empathize with Peter, but it was Nathan’s thoughts that were in his head. None of them answered where Peter might have gone, only what it felt like to catch him when he fell and to miss him when Peter eluded his grasp.

Standing, still shaky from all of the swirling emotions, he left the bench behind and entered the park. Logic and empathy had evaded him but one thing he knew was true of most people, Peter included. People were creatures of habit and Peter had walked through Central Park hundreds of times with Sylar.

Sylar heard Peter before he saw him. He had been walking for hours when the unmistakeable sound of the guitar alerted his ears. At first he thought he'd imagined it because the sound was so faint but it couldn't be anything else in the otherwise silent city. He had no way of knowing the distance that sound could carry to gauge how far ahead Peter might be but he was grateful to know he hadn’t lost him after all.

 

***

The sun was high in the sky when Peter reached Fort Tryon Park. He had wound his way through Central Park and then walked northwest until he climbed the stairs that separated the neighborhood below from the park that sat atop the rocky Hudson River cliffs. The last time he'd been here was a high school trip to the Cloisters. He headed across the sloping hills towards the trail that overlooked the river. In the near distance, the George Washington bridge spanned the Hudson and beyond it was only water. Peter blinked several times to clear his vision but the mirage persisted. The Palisades cliffs should have been across the river, but they weren’t. The water stretched out before him endlessly. Where the hell did the bridge end then?

Perplexed, with newborn tendrils of dread taking root in his gut, Peter turned back to the monastery and found his way to the roof to get a better view. Except it wasn’t better. As far as he could see both west and north of the city was only water. He felt unmoored, as he had been upon first landing in Sylar’s dreamworld to find landmarks that didn’t exist in the real city. Their apartments, which were actually in separate boros, were only blocks apart. He wanted to hit something, to smash and break and destroy things, to scream and vent his frustration to the uncaring sky. 

He ventured to the edge of the roof and rested one foot on the low stone parapet. That and thirty feet or so of air were all that separated him from the ground below.

“Don't jump.” The deep voice of his nemesis sounded behind him. Sylar had spoken softly but there was no competition from other noise to muffle his words.

Peter didn’t turn around. He closed his eyes and relaxed the set of his shoulders which were already tense from the view of the missing land across the river. “I’m not going to jump. Why did you follow me?”

“Somebody has to look out for you,” Sylar said, his footsteps bringing him closer to Peter. “I'm the only one here.”

“I'm not in any danger.” Peter continued to scan the depressing panorama before him. The flash of black clothing in his periphery told him Sylar was now standing alongside of him, far enough away to maintain an aloof distance. He didn’t know why it mattered that New Jersey appeared not to exist. It wasn’t like he had been planning to hijack a boat and go across. His only thought had been to create distance from Sylar and maybe find a sign that would point to a way out that wasn't the brick wall. So much for either of those.

“That doesn't mean something couldn't happen to you. You could injure yourself and I'd never know. How would I ever find you and help you?”

“How would I get hurt? Walking into a tree? Tripping over a curb?”

“Your penchant for rooftops is unnerving. What are you doing up here anyway?”

“I wanted to see what was out there. If maybe there was a way out.”

“Did you find any answers?” Sylar asked, not unkindly.

“No, as you can see.” Peter finally turned his head to look at Sylar. The man appeared beaten, his posture hunched and his hands crammed into his pants pockets. Peter observed him longer than was socially appropriate but etiquette was irrelevant when he was on a rooftop in an illusory city with his brother’s murderer.

“I know you hate him. You hate when I talk about him. I’m not going to push him aside just because it makes you uncomfortable to hear his name when you're the reason he's gone. I miss my brother. I loved him.”

“I know,” Sylar nodded. “He loved you too. He named you. Did you know that?”

Peter stared at Sylar. He had never spoken to Peter this way before - serious, no sarcasm, no mocking, no anger, no questions that had an agenda behind them. It was even more surprising given the topic. “Yeah, Mom told me. She didn’t know if he would relate to a baby since he was so much older. She wanted him to feel included.”

“He chose the right name. You were his rock.” Sylar looked away, his body language proclaiming his discomfort with the conversation.

“Me? What do you mean?”

The taller man sighed, his eyes darting Peter's way and then out towards the watery horizon. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and Peter detected swelling on the cheek he had punched. He winced at that; they hadn't hit one another in months and it was he, the supposed good guy empath, who had renewed the violence.

“He took care of you and you - you grounded him. Ironic that his ability turned out to be flight, hmm?” A small smile appeared on Sylar’s face as he looked back at Peter. “Nathan did what other people expected of him. He was never sure what was right. You’ve always been your own person and that made you his anchor.”

“I was? He never - That’s so…” Peter struggled to contain his emotions. He didn't want to cry in front of Sylar. “Thank you for telling me. I know how much you hate having his memories. I knew he loved me but I always thought I was just his annoying kid brother, getting into scrapes and always running to him for help.”

“Well, you were that, too.” Sylar chuckled and then his expression grew solemn. “Peter, I know it doesn't mean anything. I can't bring him back or make it right. I know that.”He met Peter's unwavering gaze and then cast his eyes downward. “I'm sorry. I just want you to know. I'm sorry for what I did. I wish I'd told you sooner. I wish I had never done it. If I had it to do over I would have - I don't know. I would have found a better solution.”

“You're - sorry?” Peter’s eyes went wide and unblinking, incredulous.

“Yes. I am,” Sylar said, meeting Peter's stare. “I killed your brother. I’m more sorry than I can say. He deserved better. So do you.”

Fury rose up like molten lava, incinerating Peter from the inside. Moments ago, he had been feeling pride that his brother had thought so well of him and grief for the loss of Nathan. Anger shoved those emotions aside. He exploded in rage, snarling, and hurled himself at the other man, sputtering incoherent curses. Sylar's arms flew up to protect himself and he took a few steps back but Peter kept advancing, swinging his fists wildly but to little effect, like a wounded animal. He lashed out in blind, white hot anger, bellowing, “You’re sorry? What good is that? You bastard, you took him from me and now I have nothing. I'm nothing, nobody, because of you! You’re fucking right, you _are_ a monster!”

Sylar took a few hits to the face but most of them landed on his arms and shoulders as he turned his body sideways, stepping away from the roof’s edge with his hands up to block without returning Peter’s blows.

Peter kept screaming until his throat was raw, throwing punch after punch while Sylar backed away. Eventually he couldn't yell anymore because the tears were choking him, clogging his throat and making his nose run until it was hard to breathe. He couldn't shout, couldn't see or hear or feel anything but the searing pain in his chest that was going to shatter him into a billion jagged pieces. Exhausted, winded and thoroughly destroyed, Peter sagged and collapsed against his enemy who grasped his shoulders to keep him upright. “I hate you,” Peter croaked because his voice was gone and he could barely choke out words between gut-wrenching sobs. “I've never hated anyone so much. I want you dead, wanna hurt you and make you suffer. Make you know what this feels like. Why did you do it?! He wasn’t even a threat to you. Ahh God this fucking hurts…”

Peter was a wreck. His knuckles were sore, he’d wrenched his shoulder and he still couldn't breathe. His face was a mess of tears and mucous and the sobs were still coming from some dark cavernous pit inside of him that felt like it would never stop belching hurt and misery. His throat burned as if he'd gargled with broken glass and his legs were weak and boneless. Dimly Peter realized that the man who'd killed his brother was holding him awkwardly by the shoulders. If not for those hands, he would have fallen over.

Sylar hadn't said anything through Peter's tirade but now he spoke quietly. “Sit, Peter. Come on, before you keel over.” Peter felt the man's hands pushing gently, guiding him down to the ground. “That's it, just sit.” Sighing, he went, folding his legs until his backside touched the concrete. He curled in on himself with his arms wrapped around his knees and his nose pressed against his denim-clad thighs. The weight of the hands on his shoulders lifted and he felt Sylar pat him a few times on his back and then nothing. He was alone in his sorrow. Finally, the tears and wracking sobs subsided and his body was too tired to cry anymore. He lifted his head to see where Sylar had gone.

The killer sat several feet away, his knees drawn up and his head tilted down, a near replica of Peter’s position.

“Sylar?” Peter said in his broken voice.

The man looked up at Peter's ravaged face. His own expression was blank.

“Your apology is not accepted.”

“Alright, Peter.”

“Why did you say it?” Peter lifted his chin and stared the other man down until Sylar dropped his gaze.

“Because it's true. I thought you should know.”

“It doesn't change anything.” If Peter could burn Sylar to ashes with his eyes, he would, silently daring the other man to look at him again but Sylar didn't.

“I know that. I don't deserve your forgiveness.”

“You're goddamn right you don't. I want you to leave. Now. Get away from me.” He couldn't yell the way he wanted to because it hurt too much.

“Alright. Will you be okay?” Sylar's furtive glances were nothing like the arrogant man Peter had battled all these years.

“As if you could help? Go.”

Sylar rose to his feet, brushing grit from the concrete off of his pants. “I'm leaving.”

“Good.”

Peter watched Sylar walk away with his head low and his usual confident stride reduced to a halting gait. Peter had never seen him so defeated and it made him glad to think he could lay even a fraction of his suffering onto the other man's hunched shoulders. Later, that thought would make him feel small and petty. But right now Peter felt a sick thrill surge through him that he had finally cracked the man's brittle shell to wound him. He was a saint for having lasted this long. He had punched Sylar's face in plenty of times but Sylar was tough enough to withstand physical pain. This was far worse. Peter knew it and he revelled in it. It was hours before he left the rooftop.

***

Sylar had been at the wall for days, not waiting for Peter because he was pretty sure after their last ugly encounter that Peter would never come back or, if he did, it would not be for a long time. Instead, he had taken up the sledgehammer himself. There was no way he was going to be alone for another three years. The wall was there for a reason and he might as well find out what it was or die trying. Maybe it was like Peter had said about perceiving things differently.

Sylar hadn’t heard Peter approach over the sound of metal clanging against brick. He nearly lost his grip on the sledgehammer when Peter entered his field of vision and greeted him.

“Hey.”

Sylar's eyes went wide with astonishment. “You came back.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “You've taken over my job, huh?” A tiny, rueful smile acknowledged Sylar's surprise.

“I didn’t expect you to come home. Why did you?”

“Because you were right. It's just us here. Home, like you said. You. Me. And this wall. I swear I'm going to knock it down if it takes every last breath in my body. You're going to help, right?”

“Of course. I promised I'd help you save Emma and I will.”

Peter nodded. “Then let's get started.” Peter strode to the base of the wall where the second sledgehammer lay.

“Alright.”

They hammered for hours mostly in silence. Late in the afternoon, Sylar left, returning with food.

Over lunch, Peter asked. “Are you sorry about any of the others?”

Sylar was reminded for the millionth time of Peter’s frustrating persistence. “I know you want me to be.” Shame colored his face that after all this time, he couldn't satisfy Peter with answers.

“But you’re not?”

“I’m sorry I did it. I fucked up my own life, too. I was shape shifting so much I hardly knew who I was and that was before I had a memory implant courtesy of your mother and Parkman. That’s not the same as remorse. I didn’t know most of them and I didn’t stick around to see the results.” He looked down at the second half of his sandwich, for once having no appetite. “I don’t have normal feelings. I don’t feel other people’s pain the way you do. Obviously if I had any empathy I wouldn’t have done any of it.”

“Sylar, you do have empathy. Maybe it's not as strong as it should be but you've had it all along. You've saved people. You saved me a few times and you’re always trying to take care of me. Look, you're feeding me again.” He tapped Sylar's bicep with the back of the hand holding his sandwich. “It's like a muscle, y’know? If you work it, it grows.”

Sylar looked up, smiling sadly. “I'm like the grinch, huh? All I need is you-know-who to make my heart grow three sizes.”

“If you can say you're sorry to me, you can feel sorry about all the others, too.” Nobody could fail to be moved by the unstoppable conviction shining from Peter's face, the same faith that had propelled him off of a rooftop and sent him to confront a killer, defenseless, to save a girl he didn't know.

“It’s different.” Sylar took a breath to steady himself, hardly daring to look at that face and disappoint Peter. “They were strangers, not people I knew or cared for.”

Peter's brows flew up, furrowing his forehead. “You're saying you care for me?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“I guess not.”

“I don't know what the protocol is, Peter. Do you need me to apologize again? I meant what I said.” For once Sylar didn't try to hide the hope he knew must be written all over his face.

“You want me to say I forgive you?”

“If you do.”

“I'm not there yet. I'm trying.” Peter looked down, toying with the cap on his water bottle.

  
“But someday?” Sylar probed, watching the EMT avoid eye contact.

Peter took a long swig of water, swallowed and wiped his mouth. Scanning the brick wall as if the answer might be written there, he responded. “I don’t know. I hope so but I can't make any promises.”

“I can’t make any promises either.”

“We’ll play it by ear, okay?”

“Okay.” Sylar nodded. It was good enough, for now. More than he deserved.

“Sylar?”

“Hmm?” Sylar watched as Peter traced a pattern on the water bottle where condensation had formed.

“I owe you an apology, too.” Peter said, looking up again. “For everything. Well not the times I got in your way. That was necessary. But when I took it too far. Here. At Mercy. When I could have helped you and I didn't. If I could, I would apologize for everyone else, too.”

“You're apologizing? To me?” He didn't know how he was supposed to feel. Peter was so confusing. He wouldn't, or couldn't, forgive. But he could confess his own sins. 

“Yeah. Don't you think I should?”

Sylar shook his head but he didn't speak. The head shake didn't mean no, it meant he couldn't trust his voice. The apology was gratifying though he didn't deserve it. It made him feel human, salvageable, and yet it terrified him too. Peter had such power over him and Sylar had given it all up himself, piece by agonizing piece.

He broke the silence because Peter was waiting for an answer. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  
***

Sylar knew his relationship with Peter had changed when Peter started touching him. All the time. It wasn’t that Peter had never touched him before. Peter did it to everyone. That’s just who he was. A pat on the back, rubbing a shoulder, the squeeze of an elbow. This new touching was different. It wasn’t sexual (he could only wish!) but it was friendly, lingering. It was gradual, just like all the other changes they’d undergone together, from mortal ass-kicking enemies to whatever they were now. Friends, maybe? Sylar didn’t want to ask again, not after the last time when he’d been so completely shut down.  
  
Sylar, who was not a touchy-feely guy and usually kept his hands to himself (which made telekinesis such an ironic power for him to have) unless he wanted something, began mirroring the way that Peter handled him. It was that Petrelli mind trick that Peter always used on him and now Sylar understood why. It made him happy to give and receive affection and Sylar didn’t remember ever being happy. It was cheesy and ridiculous and he would never say it out loud but the primal part of him that flourished from the affection told his asshole tough guy self to fuck off until further notice.

“Give it a rest, Peter,” he prodded his companion after a long day of wall hammering. “It’s just us here. You don’t have to prove anything. I know how persistent you are.” He reached out to Peter’s upper back and rubbed, using his other hand to draw the sledgehammer away from the smaller man. With both hands free, he massaged Peter’s shoulders, squeezing, rubbing and pressing on the points he’d want done to his own back. Not that he knew what he was doing, but Peter seemed to like it.

“Mmmm, that feels great. Thanks.” Peter stretched his arms out, arched his back and purred like a cat lying in the sun.

Sylar chuckled, proud to have elicited such a reaction. “Anytime. I aim to please.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Peter murmured.

“What have you noticed?”

“You,” Peter turned to say over his shoulder. “Trying to make me feel good.”

“Is it working?” Sylar tried not to sound as hopeful as he felt. He hadn’t meant to seduce Peter just now but it was never very far from his mind.

“Oh yeah!”

Encouraged, Sylar turned Peter to face him, pressing his thumbs into the flesh above Peter’s collarbones and digging his fingers into the EMT’s shoulder blades. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” Peter dragged the word out in a low, breathy voice. He tilted his head, surveying Sylar with those large dark eyes. They were narrowed at the outer corners and Sylar had come to know what that look meant. Peter was happy about what he was doing. He rubbed Peter's shoulder and stroked up and down his arm with one hand, using the other to slip a wayward lock of hair behind Peter’s ear. Peter staring at him was unnerving. Sylar watched his hand caressing Peter’s arm, then his other hand playing with the man’s hair. Catching Peter’s eyes briefly, he grinned.

“It’s okay, Sylar.” That small, delicate mouth curving into an approving smile in return was the best sight Sylar had seen all day. Maybe ever.

“It is?”

Peter nodded.

“Alright then,” Sylar answered, wanting to sound suave and seductive and hoping his voice wouldn't crack. He tipped Peter’s chin up and dipped his head down until their faces were close enough to brush their lips together. He repeated the kiss, a little firmer and holding it longer each time, until he felt Peter’s mouth moving against his. He had wanted this for so long and now that it was happening, he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Sylar paused for breath, stepping back because the intimacy was overwhelming after having been alone for so long and then on guard against Peter for so much of their time together. He hadn't kissed anyone in ages, and it had been longer still since it was anyone he cared about.

“C’mon, Sylar. Kiss me again.” Peter’s hand cupped the back of Sylar’s head and pulled him close, snaking his other arm around Sylar’s waist. It felt warm where Peter’s hand was spread flat against the small of his back.

Their mouths touched once more, soft and gentle. It wasn’t the most passionate kiss Sylar had ever experienced. It was sweet, tender and infinitely careful. Sylar dragged his lips along Peter’s jawline, inhaling the scent of his shampoo. He kissed and then bit Peter's delicious neck and the EMT's breath in his ear sent a shiver down his back.

“Nathan was right,” Sylar whispered against the lustrous dark hair that framed the EMT’s face.

Peter pulled back to look at Sylar with a question in his eyes. “Nathan was wrong about a lot of things. What was he right about?”

“You. I know you haven't forgiven me. Maybe you never will. But you had faith in me when nobody else would give me a chance. I feel - hope?”

Sylar raked a hand through his hair, flicked his eyes at Peter’s earnest face, at the wall, at the neck of Peter's shirt that he'd disturbed when he was kissing him. He straightened it now. “Don't laugh, Peter, I know this sounds like a bad movie. But maybe I haven't killed my soul. Maybe it's still in there somewhere and I can find it, fix it.” He traced Peter's lips with his finger and followed with another kiss.

“You'll help me, won't you? He said you can do anything.”

‘Course I'll help you, Sylar. Whatever you need.”

 

***


End file.
